The Thing That is Not (and Perhaps Is)

My muse isn’t the

meandering mist

over mountain streams;

bright on a sharp morning.

My muse isn’t the

rippling song

of a twilight thrush;

slipping through the gloam.

My muse isn’t the

brave balancing

wren upon a single reed;

warbling flight and freedom.

My muse isn’t the sun

light gleaming

through lush leaves;

glowing golden green.

But perhaps it is true that

my muse is the

silence

between

lilting

notes;

abandoned

reed

quivering;

empty space where the thrush

might

have

been

or

would have been

(or perhaps never was);

mountain-shaped blotch of blackness in the sky, where

the absence is the

presence.

My muse is the moment

when there is

(nothing)

but your own

heart

(beat).